


Breaking the Cycle

by DarylDixonGrimes



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: A Very Desus Valentine's 2k18, Alternate Universe - No Zombies, Chicken Noodle Soup for the Desus Lover's Soul, Domestic Violence, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Some angst, and they were ROOMMATES, fun new ways to spread germs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 17:57:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13664274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarylDixonGrimes/pseuds/DarylDixonGrimes
Summary: Daryl's life seems to follow a cycle of pain and violence. So when he starts falling for his new roommate, he's more than wary about what it might mean.But sometimes breaking a cycle means making a choice.(Written for the Very Desus Valentine's exchange.)





	Breaking the Cycle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [black_wings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/black_wings/gifts).



> Hello Valentine. I got a little ambitious with your prompts and decided to just... do all of them? 
> 
> I'm pretty sure I got it all in there, and I hope you enjoy at least parts of it. 
> 
> Thank you for participating in the exchange and Happy Valentine's Day. <3

They say abuse is a pattern—a cycle that often repeats in one way or another. If that’s the case, maybe Daryl was always destined to end up here.

His nose is broken. Disoriented as he is, he can feel blood trickling out of one or both of his nostrils. There are other signs too—searing pain spreading out from the center of his face, water gathering in both of his eyes. But he can’t seem to focus on any of it for too long.

His head is swimming and there’s more pain to contend with. And Will Dixon is yelling. No, not Will. Someone else.

“Now look at what you’ve fucking done!”

Daryl thinks of a retort, but it’s gone before he can get the air out of his lungs, before his lips can form syllables. He blinks, his boyfriend’s ratty Nikes blurring in front of him. Daryl has always hated those fucking shoes.

More blinking. More yelling. His mind clears enough for him to grab onto one of the many threads running through his brain. It’s the most important one—thick and red and easy to hold. He white-knuckles it like the lifeline that it is.   
  
_Get up and get out. Get up and get out. Get up and get out._

Ignoring the way the carpet tilts when he does it, Daryl forces himself up off the floor to his feet. He blinks once at the face before him, forcing the world to right as much as he can. It’s the last moment of hesitation he’ll allow himself until this is over.

“Where the hell are you going?”

Daryl doesn’t bother answering. He weaves around the couch and throws the front door open. His truck is a few yards away, his keys in his pocket. But his old pickup truck requires manual unlocking and he can already hear the footfalls behind him. He could turn and fight back, could probably even kick the bastard’s ass if he could stay on his feet long enough for his head to clear. But his boyfriend concealed carries, and he’s not about to take that risk.

So at the bottom of the porch steps, he turns right and heads toward the woods. Even in the middle of the night, they look as safe and secure as they did when he was a boy.

Plus he knows he probably won't be followed. 

With only a sliver of moonlight and his own skills and instincts to guide him, he disappears into the trees, quickly making his way as far from the house as possible, ignoring the way the world moves before him like the waters of a rough sea. Focusing on nothing but staying on his feet, he takes an intentionally erratic path that weaves and winds through trees and underbrush. Behind him he sees the bright white of a cell phone flashlight probing the night, but it doesn’t reach him. 

Still he keeps going, pushing deeper and deeper into the vegetation, keeping his ears tuned for any sign that he might not be alone.

He doesn’t sleep. Or even stop to rest.  

It’s dawn before he leaves the safety of the woods for one of King County’s many two-lane highways. He doesn’t know where he’s going, just that he can’t go back today or maybe ever. If he has to give up every possession he left there and start over from scratch, then he will. Because if seeing his parents interact taught him anything, it was that violence against someone you love is never a one-time thing.

Trudging through a patch of butterweed, he keeps wandering while the sky lightens from pale pinks and yellows to a bright and vibrant blue laced with tufts of pristine cotton.

That’s how Deputy Rick Grimes finds him—dirty and tired and sunburnt, his nose throbbing and his face caked with blood.

* * *

Paul’s apartment sits over Melba Jean’s Antique Store and Scrapbooking Emporium. Paul’s honest about the place when he gives Daryl (and Rick) the grand tour. You’ve got to jiggle the handle of the toilet or it’ll keep running indefinitely. The hot water is temperamental. There’s a weird smell that comes and goes, and he’s never been able to figure out what it is to get rid of it.

“On Tuesday nights, they have something called ‘Merlot and Memories’ downstairs,” Paul says, standing in the middle of the living room, the light from the large windows behind him haloing out around his body. “So once a week you’ll have to suffer the giggles of middle aged women. They can get a bit rowdy.”

Daryl looks up at the ceilings and the exposed ductwork, then around the room. It’s a pretty sizable apartment. The floors are nice—original hardwood from the 1800s according to Paul. Maple specifically, if Daryl’s eyes serve him right.

“Well?” Rick asks, leaning casually on the wall by the gas fireplace.

Daryl’s spent the past week with Rick. After he picked him up on the side of the road, he helped him get the blood off his face and let him crash at the station for a few hours, before providing a police escort to his ex-boyfriend’s so he could load the few possessions he had into the back of his truck. A few days on Rick’s couch while his wife babied him with ice packs and pleas to see a doctor, and then Rick introduced him to Paul Rovia—a local martial arts instructor conveniently looking for a roommate.

“What do you think?” Rick peels himself off the drywall and looks at the ceilings and then back toward the kitchen.

Truthfully, Daryl fell in love the second he walked in the door. Whether it’s the old wood floors, the ancient building, or the weird odor Paul described on the tour; something about the place smells earthy. It reminds him of the woods—of safety and comfort and  _home_. The industrial feel suits him too, putting him in the mind of old factories where they built the kinds of classic cars Daryl wishes he could afford. The lighting is good, the location is good, and the rent is even better.

It’s Paul who makes him wary. Daryl’s not so eager to live with another man again so soon, even if they are just roommates.

Still, he can’t live on Rick’s couch forever. At some point his and Lori’s southern hospitality is bound to run out.

“It’s alright,” Daryl says casually. He absentmindedly wipes at his nose, cringing when pain dances through the nerves of his face. On the tour, he caught a brief glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror. If 'roadkill raccoon' was a makeup technique, then Daryl's face would be plastered on fashion magazines. He puts his hand back down at his side, ignoring the lingering throbs until they die down. 

"I think that means he'll take it," Rick says, raising his eyebrows at Daryl for confirmation. Daryl nods. 

“I’ll grab the papers,” Paul says, already padding barefoot out of the room.

“I’ll help you bring things up from the truck.” Rick claps Daryl on the shoulder and they walk out the door and down the back stairs.

“How do you and Paul know each other anyway?” Daryl asks, lowering the tailgate of his truck. It creaks so loud he’s sure Paul probably hears it upstairs.

“We’ve got those monthly self-defense classes we run out of the station,” Rick says. “He’s volunteered to come in and help out a few times.”

Daryl grunts in reply, already lifting out a cardboard box. The outside claims it contains 12 oz styrofoam cups. The weight of it tells a much different story.

“The ladies all love him. Call him Jesus. Probably because of the hair.” Rick takes a box of his own. “He’s a good guy, Daryl, if that’s what you’re wonderin. Wouldn’t’ve introduced you otherwise.”

“People ain’t always what they seem, Rick.”

Rick doesn’t answer at first, following Daryl back toward the building. He smiles knowingly.

“Like how the town’s token redneck asshole is actually one of the best people you’ll ever meet?”

“Pfft.”

“I mean it. About both of you,” Rick says. “Well, maybe not the 'redneck asshole' part.”

“Mhm.”

“But if I was wrong, and I’m not, you have my number and you already know the couch is comfortable,” Rick says.

“Thanks.” Daryl throws back the closest thing he can get to a smile under current circumstances and together they head back to the apartment, boxes in hand. Inside, Paul waits at the kitchen counter with a pen and a lease. Taking a brief moment to make sure it doesn't say anything weird about how Paul can charge him for not wearing socks on Tuesdays or sell his kidneys at any moment, Daryl signs. 

"Welcome home," Paul says, handing him a set of keys before joining their little moving parade. 

On their third trip up the stairs, Daryl quietly prays to whomever that it all works out. Because moving into an upstairs apartment without an elevator is a bitch and he has zero desire to ever do it again.

* * *

 

Within a month, Daryl’s pretty sure he made a mistake. It’s not that Paul is a bad guy; it’s that he’s really fucking irritating. And he doesn’t even  _do_  anything to actually warrant Daryl's ire. He just exists, and something about that bugs Daryl endlessly.

“You’ve seriously never seen  _Karate Kid_? How is that even possible?”

Daryl drops his fork down into his bowl of spaghetti. He hadn’t intended to eat dinner with Paul when he first plopped down on the couch. The man just has a thing about appearing out of nowhere—hell Daryl hadn’t even known he was home until he practically manifested in the kitchen, a paper-towel wrapped sandwich in his hand.

Maybe that’s what irritates him about Paul. It’s been a very long time since anyone has snuck up on Daryl Dixon. And Paul isn’t even trying.

“I just haven’t,” Daryl says.

“But  _how_?”

Daryl knows exactly why he never saw it. He’s never seen a lot of things, because his dad was king of the television and if it wasn’t on one of the three channels they got by antenna, then it didn’t exist. There were no movie rentals in the Dixon household. The only movies he did see growing up were things that got shown at school when they had a substitute teacher. If he never sees  _Charlotte’s Web_ again, it’ll be too damn soon.

“I just ain’t, alright?”

“What else haven’t you seen?”

“A lot of shit, probably.” Daryl sucks his last noodle into his mouth and stands up off the couch, hoping that walking into the kitchen ends the conversation. In all honestly, he should’ve known better. Especially since the kitchen is open right up to the living room.

Damn’t, when did society collectively decide kitchens no longer needed doors?

“Okay, Saturday. Do you have to work?” Paul asks, and Daryl takes the time to rinse his bowl out. A lot of time actually.

“No,” he says, gritting the word through his teeth because he knows what’s coming next.

“Movie night it is.” Paul beams at him, gorgeous blue eyes bright and chipper and  _obnoxious_. One corner of Daryl’s mouth twitches and he nods once before disappearing into the sanctuary of his bedroom. He locks the door. 

It’s a lot later—his headphones filling his ears with Motorhead at dangerously high volumes—when Daryl realizes how easily his mind supplied the word “gorgeous” as a descriptor for Paul’s eyes. From there, it’s not a big leap to realize how easily the word fits the rest of him.

The real reason Paul bugs him becomes starkly apparent, and he pulls his pillow over his face and growls into the fabric.

* * *

A few more weeks do nothing to improve the situation. If anything, it gets worse.

Daryl’s irritation shifts, moving off of Paul and turning inward. Because he swore he’d never fall for another guy and yet here he is. There are still boxes in his bedroom that he hasn’t fully unpacked and he already feels something stirring that he can’t seem to unstir.

Daryl sees his ex one day, strolling down the aisles of the local convenience store when Daryl pops in to buy a Coke. He’s not alone, and Daryl has half a mind to warn the guy with him to run as far as he can. And damn’t he hates himself for ducking into another aisle instead, crouching his way down the aisle to the register. He throws a five dollar bill on the counter and mutters ‘keep the change’ before practically sprinting from the store.  

The whole thing eats away at him all day while he works on the engine of an old Buick. It mounts and mounts, piling on top of what he already feels about falling for Paul when he swore he wouldn’t fall for anyone. And when he makes it home after work, he grabs a beer immediately, sinking down onto the couch and drinking it in huge swigs.

“Are you okay?” Paul asks. He’s been there the whole time watching some UFC fight. Daryl usually at least says hello to him when he comes in, but he wasn’t in the mood today.

He shakes his head and takes another drink. Mid-fight, Paul turns the TV off. The screen goes black.

“What happened?”

Daryl shakes his head. “Ran into my ex earlier.”

Paul sits up straighter.

“Did he talk to you?” he asks.

“Didn’t know I was there. Had some guy on his arm, and I knew I should say somethin. Tell him to get out while he can, but I…”

Daryl finishes off the beer in two more big gulps, setting it down on the coffee table with a clunk. 

"I'm a damn coward, I guess. Practically hid from the asshole."

“That’s a pretty normal reaction, Daryl,” Paul says. “No one sane would blame you for not wanting to face him again.”

“Don’t make it the right reaction. If anything happens to that guy now, it’s on me.” And it’s true. Daryl didn’t press charges for assault. Daryl didn’t open his mouth earlier when he had the chance. Life gave him the opportunity to try breaking that damn cycle twice already and he didn't take either one of 'em.

Paul sighs and shifts on the cushions.

“Daryl, I’m about to say something and I need you to really listen and hear it,” Paul says. “And then I need you to really think about it.”

Daryl squints at him and assents. 

“Alright, what?”

“The only person responsible if that guy gets hurt is the person who hurts him. No one else.” Paul reaches over and squeezes his shoulder. “It’s not your personal responsibility even if you think it is.”

“Still doesn’t feel right.” All Daryl's been able to think about all day is how at least he could’ve put up a fight if it'd ever come to that. The new guy is even smaller than Paul, with none of the muscles and probably none of the training either. What if it's even worse for him? 

“What if you tell Rick?” Paul offers. “He can’t exactly go pull the guy out of the situation if he doesn’t ask for help, but maybe he can keep an eye out and be there if things go south.”

Daryl chews on his bottom lip while he thinks it over. He has to admit it feels a hell of a lot better than just doing nothing.

He nods and gets up to grab another beer.

* * *

A few more weeks pass. Rick manages to catch his ex going one full mile over the speed limit and uses it as an excuse to pull him over. It turns out he knows the guy in the passenger seat enough to feel comfortable asking him for a private conversation.

It turns out the shit’s already started with him. He presses charges without hesitation—something Daryl admires endlessly—and Daryl’s ex currently has a nice comfortable bunk in county attached to a $500,000 bail.

That thought should be a comfort to Daryl, and it is, but the way he feels about Paul is still eating away at him. If anything, knowing it happened again has re-awoken all the wariness Daryl brought from his last relationship. His heart and his mind fight a war that seems to at in an endless stalemate. And Daryl is  _tired_. 

“You sure you’re alright?” Rick asks. A couple of weeks after Daryl moved, they started meeting weekly at T-Dog’s diner to catch up over coffee and omelets. Sometimes Lori comes with the new baby. Sometimes Maggie unties her apron and joins them at their usual booth.

“You’re really quiet today,” Maggie says, rolled apron in her fist on the tabletop. “Well, quieter than usual.”

“Ain’t nothin.”

“Bullshit.” Maggie tilts her chin down and gives him  _that_  look. Weeks ago, she told Daryl that she was studying political science in hopes of making some kind of difference in the world. He briefly thinks that maybe she should’ve gone the law route instead. He can just see her up on a judge’s bench, leveling that look and making people like his idiot brother piss themselves.

“Is it Paul?” Rick asks, and Daryl looks down at the yellowed linoleum of the tabletop, immediately cursing this move because he knows he’s given himself away. “He didn’t? He wouldn’t.”

“No,” Daryl says. “Nothin like that.”

Though that’s what he’s afraid of, isn’t it?

“Then what did he do?” Maggie asks. “I have his class tonight. Want me to accidentally misplace a knee?”

Daryl sighs and pushes his eggs around on his plate with his fork.

“He didn’t do anything.” Except be amazing all the goddamn time. 

“You just don’t get along?” Rick asks.

“Get along fine,” Daryl concedes. Hell, they have movie nights once a week, cook things together, team up on the grocery shopping. They even have the chores figured out so that no one’s ever bickering about dishes or whose turn it is to unclog the shower drain—Paul’s always, since it’s always his hair.

They complement each other so perfectly it feels like some damn teen romance novel. If the two of them were vampires, someone could probably write the whole thing down and make millions. 

“I’m a little confused.” Maggie pulls her plastic glass of sweat tea closer and runs her thumb through the condensation.

Daryl glances up at Rick. He’s got a look of his own going—forehead slightly creased, concerned blue eyes cutting their way into Daryl so hard that he squirms in his seat.

“He's just makin stuff complicated. That's all,” Daryl says, grabbing for the bottle of Cholula and dousing his lunch.

“Daryl.” Rick tilts his head, and Daryl knows any hope of not talking about this is gone.

“Just feelin shit I’d rather not, alright?” Daryl forks another mouthful of eggs and sausage and eats it, his foot tapping on the tile under the table. 

Their little piece of the diner goes quiet for a moment save the sound of Daryl’s fork scraping dully against his plate. He takes another bite of his omelet, trying not to focus on the way his heart seems to have migrated into his throat or the way his hand shakes around the utensil.

Why the hell is he so nervous about admitting to having feelings for Paul to people who aren't even Paul?

“Wait,” Rick says. “Are you sayin…?”

Daryl looks down at the tabletop again.

“Does he know?” Maggie asks.

“Hell no,” Daryl says. “Don’t need to neither. I’ll get over it.”

“You’re not even gonna tell him?” Rick asks.

“Told you when we was packin up my shit that I wasn’t doin it again, Rick,” Daryl says. “I ain’t.”

“I didn't say anything then, because you weren't ready to hear it, but you can’t close yourself off forever because of one asshole,” Rick says. "You'd just be letting him dictate the life you lead forever." 

“Rick’s right.” Maggie reaches forward and puts her hand on one of Daryl’s wrists. He resists the urge to flinch away. “You know, my momma always used to say that a lot of life’s choices come down to safe and happy. Sometimes decisions give you both things. But a lot of times, you have to choose between one or the other. When that happens, she said, you should always go for happiness. Because no one’s ever said on their death bed that they were glad they played it safe. Folks always wish they’d taken risks and gone after their dreams, that they traveled more, that they dated their cute martial arts instructor roommate.”

Daryl huffs.

“Seems a little specific for mom’s words of wisdom,” he says.

“Uncanny, isn’t it?” Maggie smiles at him. “Daryl I’ve known Paul since he moved to town. Did I ever tell you how we met?”

“You and Paul? Nah.”

Maggie sits up a little straighter and takes a sip of her tea.

“So I was here alone one night filling in for Glenn. It’s just me and this out-of-towner Philip. And Paul. Honestly somethin about Philip made me uncomfortable the second he walked in the door, but I didn’t say anything, not that there was anyone to say anything to since I didn't really know Paul yet. I do remember hoping Philip would leave first, but he just kept ordering stuff. Anyway, Paul finished his pie, paid his check, and left, or so I thought. That meant me bein alone with this Philip guy. 

“He’d obviously been waiting for Paul to leave too, because he started getting stranger the second he was out the door, asking me questions about whether or not I cooked his food and things like that. I could tell he was tryin to find out if I was alone or if there was someone else in the kitchen. I had enough of a sense of him to lie, but then he said he wanted to compliment the chef personally, wouldn’t let me just pass it along.”

“I remember that guy,” Rick says. “Warrants out from five states and twelve different counties.”

“Real nasty guy.” Maggie nods. “Anyway he started walking back into the kitchen and he grabbed my arm and forced me to go with him. He wasn’t rough with me then, but I knew if I tried to pull away he’d get violent. So I started tryin to think of some way to get his hand off me so I could make a run for it, going through the kitchen in my head, what was where and what I could use. I wasn’t sure what he wanted with me or if I’d survive it even if I did what he asked.”

“Sorry that happened. If anybody doesn't deserve it, it's you,” Daryl says, and Maggie squeezes his wrist.

“I think he already knew there wasn’t a cook, but the second we were in the kitchen, he turned on me. He started tellin me that I was gonna empty the register for him, that if I followed his instructions from then on, he would only hurt me for lyin to him earlier, but if I didn’t...” She shakes her head. “After that I didn’t really hear anything else. He picked up the kitchen knife, started pushin me back out toward the counter. I think I told him four or five times that we keep maybe fifty in the register that late at night, just enough to make change and nothin else. It just wasn’t worth it.”

“How’s Paul come into this?” Daryl asks. “You said you thought he was gone.”

“He told me later on that he didn’t feel good about that guy. He tried to wait him out, I guess, but then he realized the guy wasn't goin anywhere. So he did what he’s best at and made it seem like he left before sneaking back in and hiding around the corner by where we have the lunch buffet. The door bell dinged and everything. I don’t know how he did it.”

“Yeah, try livin with him,” Daryl says. “So he was still there?”  

Maggie smiles.

“He was. I remember the knife clatterin to the tile before I realized anything was happening. I turn around and Paul already has this guy on the floor, arm around his neck. A few more seconds and he’s out like a light. We tied him up with some stuff from the office and called the cops.”

“You?” Daryl asks Rick.

“I probably would’ve ended up with a suspension if it’d been me. Inside city limits. Was Chambler, wasn’t it?”

“It was. She was thrilled,  _accidentally_  banged his head on the top of the car twice putting him in. Guess he held her sister at gunpoint in Marietta,” Maggie says. “But that’s another story for another day. We’re talking about Paul.”

“Mhm.”

“He’d only opened his martial arts studio a week before that. He told me that it’d do him some good to have a client so well-connected in the community and that I was welcome to free classes as long as I promised to tell some of my friends about it. It was bullshit and we both knew it, but I took him up on it. If there’s ever another Philip Blake, he won’t know what hit him.” Maggie smiles and pulls her hand back, glancing at the clock and then standing up to tie her apron back on.

“Truth be told, I’m not sure the actual Philip Blake knew what hit him either.” Rick laughs softly. “But I’ve seen Maggie in action in some of Paul’s classes at the station. I wouldn’t cross her.”

“A wise man. Anyway, Paul would never hurt you, not like that,” Maggie says. “But if he ever does, I learned from the best.”

She busies herself with tidying up their table and taking their cups so she can get them refills. When she comes back, she sets the check upside-down on the table before placing her hand on Daryl’s shoulder. 

“Choose happiness. You might not believe you deserve it after everything, but you deserve it.” Smiling softly, she leans down and kisses him on the forehead. Then she floats off to another table, her white sneakers squeaking quietly on the dated tile.

* * *

Despite all the wisdom imparted on him at the diner, Daryl doesn’t tell Paul right away. He knows it really comes down to nerves and the fear he still holds onto that he might get hurt again. Meanwhile, he makes excuses, each one a little less logical than the last. He can’t tell Paul because he’s overdue for a shower, and what if Paul wants to hug him? He can’t do it because Paul’s in the middle of watching  _American Ninja Warrior,_ and how can they have a whole conversation about what they might be to each other during commercial breaks? He can’t talk to him now because it’s Thursday and it makes sense to start all this with the new week, right? He’ll tell him Sunday. Or Monday. Or maybe Tuesday since Monday is National Hug a Barber Day according to the sign up in the window across the street.

Delay, delay, delay. Rick and Maggie breathe down his neck in person and by text message. His feelings grow every time Paul says something that makes it clear how much he already knows Daryl and how well they’d fit together if he only said something.

His fear of being hurt by another man slowly melts into the fear of being hurt period. Because feelings are a two-way street and Paul can still reject him no matter how good of a guy he is.

Everything comes to a head when Daryl gets sick. The cold comes on suddenly. On Tuesday night, Daryl goes to bed feeling fine. On Wednesday morning, he wakes up in a coughing fit, unable to breathe out of his nose.

He tries to go to work, but he makes it as far as the bathroom before he gives up on that idea. He can’t go two steps without his lungs going haywire, and he can’t exactly change a tire if he can’t even move. He calls in to Dale and splays out on the couch, turning on a marathon of some motorcycle show and dozing away most of the day.

He’s dreaming about the wind in his hair when he feels fingertips brush his forehead.

“Hey.”

The sky in his dream gives way to an even more amazing hue of blue. Paul kneels before him, his long tresses pulled up on top of his head in a messy bun. Gently, he presses the back of his hand along Daryl’s forehead before smoothing the hair off his face.

“Gonna live?” Daryl asks, before tugging the throw blanket up over his mouth to catch his cough. When he finishes, he wishes he’d been a bit more lucid throughout the day, because there’s a half-used roll of Angel Soft on the carpet next to the sofa, used wads of toilet paper littering the coffee table. Here he wants the man in front of him to view him as something other than a roommate and he came home to  _this_.

“No fever at least.” Paul walks to the kitchen and picks up the trash can, bringing it back and sweeping all the makeshift tissues into it with one arm.

“I’m going to pop over to the pharmacy before it closes,” he says, pulling his hair out of the ponytail and redoing it into something a little less disheveled. “I’ll be back in ten.”

Daryl falls asleep again.

When he wakes up, the throw blanket is gone, a heavier quilt in its place. He blinks, the room slowly coming into focus in a haze of artificial light. It's a little disorienting that it's dark now when he was barely awake for any daylight, but he pushes that feeling aside. 

On the coffee table in front of him is a box of actual tissues, the words on the side claiming they contain both lotion and Vicks. There’s a bag of cough drops too, some fancy water. And the small wastebasket from the bathroom with a clean bag.

Slowly, Daryl sits up, choking back a cough and turning his head toward the kitchen. There, he finds Paul standing in front of the stove, stirring a pot in his flannel pajama pants.

“Hey,” Daryl chokes out, coughing the word out before hacking into his elbow. Paul frowns, grabbing something off the kitchen counter before walking over with a measuring spoon. He pours thick syrup from a bottle and offers it to Daryl, who opens his mouth without an ounce of protest. And the medicine tastes like ass dipped in more ass, but he can already feel it warming his chest.

“Thanks,” he says.

“Drink some of this.” Paul puts the water in his hand. Blue text bubbles on the plastic inform Daryl that his water contains electrolytes. He's never quite known what the hell electrolytes actually do, but apparently they're important enough for someone to think adding them to water was a good idea. 

“Owe ya one.” Daryl struggles with the lid, his stupid fingers stubbornly refusing to grip the lid tight enough to actually turn it. Forcing them into submission, he manages to get the thin open before Paul has to step in. He only spills a little down his chin.

“You should have told me you were sick. I would’ve closed the studio up and come home earlier.”

“No need for that.”

“Disagree. But hold on.” Paul jogs back into the kitchen, giving the pot on the stove another stir before pulling it off and setting it on a cup towel. Moments later, he places a steaming bowl of soup into Daryl’s hands. And as sick as Daryl is, he still thinks it looks delicious—hearty and warm, with huge hunks of carrot and chicken and large spiral noodles. He blows across the surface and takes a sip of the broth. Another sip, and he can already feel some of the congestion in his nose clearing away.

Paul makes his own bowl and sits down beside him, spooning some of the soup into his mouth. Between bites, he reaches over and checks Daryl’s forehead again, pulling back when he’s satisfied that it's still cool. 

“This from a can or was I asleep that long?” Daryl asks.

“Neither,” Paul says. “Soup of the day at T-Dog’s. I saw it on the sign when I drove by and asked Maggie for the biggest container they had. I’m pretty sure what she gave me wasn’t even close to anything they actually sell.”

“Sounds like Maggie.” Daryl picks up his spoon and manages to get a little bit of everything in one bite. It tastes as good as it looked, even with his stuffy nose impeding his sense. And for a while, he and Paul sit in silence save slurping and occasional coughs. 

When Daryl finishes drinking the rest of the broth, he sets the bowl down on the coffee table and turns to look at the man beside him. Paul freezes with the spoon in front of his mouth before lowering it back down into his bowl. 

“What?” he asks. “Do you want more? There’s plenty.”

“No one’s ever made me soup before. Or bought me soup. Or…”

“Ever?”

“Nah.” Daryl shakes his head. “Never had anyone take care of me when I was sick. Dad would tell me to tough it up. Mom was too high to care. Merle was either sick too, avoiding me because he didn’t wanna catch it, or not around.”

The look Paul gives him isn’t pity. Daryl would  _hate_  pity. No, this is something else. Understanding, maybe. 

“My mother’s chicken noodle soup was even better than this if you can believe that,” Paul says. “It was actually grandmother’s recipe. It called for slow-roasted chicken, so it usually took her two days to make it right. So at the end of November every year, she’d make this big batch and freeze it so when we were sick there’d be some on hand.”

“Your mom sounds nice.” Daryl sniffles and reaches for one of the tissues, wiping at his nose because he’d really rather not full on blow it like some kind of mucus trumpet in front of Paul. Especially not this Paul. Paul in his pajamas has always been one of Daryl’s favorite Pauls—plaid pants, thin tank top that shows off all of his lean muscles. And Daryl may be sick, but he’s certainly not blind. Pajama Paul is easily the cutest Paul. And the sexiest, for that matter. 

“She was everything you could ever want in a mother,” Paul says. “I remember the first time I got sick in the group home. They gave me medicine, of course. They even gave me soup, but it was that condensed stuff from a can. It wasn’t terrible or anything, but it wasn’t even close to hers. Back then, I stayed so angry all the time that I lost everyone all at once, but that first time I was sick and there was no soup... If there is a god somewhere out there, I probably made his ears bleed.”

“You still angry?” Daryl asks, and Paul shakes his head.

“I found some perspective eventually. I see now that I was lucky to have such a loving family even if it was short-lived.”

Daryl nods. He’d have traded a lot of things as a boy for some short-lived kindness.

“Do you need anything else?” Paul asks. “Or want anything?”

Daryl does want something if he’s being truly honest. He wants to fall over onto Paul and wrap his arms around him and feel Paul do the same. He wants to tell him the thing he should’ve told him weeks ago. He wants to not be sick anymore because being sick has always been a load of bullshit. But mostly the first two things. 

“Nah, you've done enough,” Daryl says. “More than enough.”

“I wanted to,” Paul says. “You should know that.”

Sliding his feet out from under him, Paul gets up and clears the bowls. That gives Daryl just enough time to chew over that last statement. And maybe it’s being sick or the cough syrup. Or maybe now that he has an actual legitimate excuse for putting things off, he realizes he doesn’t even want one anymore. 

At any rate, he decides it's time. Not the best time, but the right one.

“I’d want to for you too,” Daryl says quietly. Paul goes stiff at the sink for the blink of an eye before loosening back up, and then he shuts the water off and turns around.

“Daryl, I...” he falters, which is strange in itself because Daryl isn’t used to Paul faltering, ever. Between the two of them, Daryl’s usually the one struggling to find the right words.

“You ever say you’re gonna do somethin and do the opposite?" Daryl asks. "And it ain't because you lied on purpose or anything. You just realized maybe you were wrong? That you miscalculated?”

Paul joins him on the couch again, folding his legs up underneath him on the cushions as always.

“I once said I was going to jump off the roof of the group home into a barrel roll. I fractured my ankle.” Paul turns his body a little more toward Daryl, leaning his side against the back of the sofa. “But something tells me that isn’t what you mean.”

“Why do I feel like you tried again as soon as your ankle was better?” Daryl asks.

“Because you’ve met me.” Paul smiles.

“Idiot,” Daryl teases.

“What did you get wrong, Daryl?”

Daryl draws the quilt a little tighter around him, pulling his socked feet up onto the cushions so he can turn and face Paul better. He leans against the back of the sofa too, staring at the blue eyes opposite him.

“After all the shit that happened, I told Rick I was gonna die single. That I was done.” Daryl swipes at his nose with the tissue again. “Meant it too.”

“But you miscalculated?” Paul asks, his fingers twitching on the knee of his pajamas.

“Rick’s fault,” Daryl says, his nerves starting to bubble up inside of him. His stomach suddenly feels too small and too tight. His heart migrates to his ears.

 _Th-thump, th-thump, th-thump_. 

“How so?”

Daryl wipes his nose one more time, swallowing thickly. His other hand grips the blanket a bit tighter, and he looks down at the couch between them. Now or never. 

“Asshole introduced me to you,” Daryl says before he can change his mind. He keeps his face down, trying to gather the courage to look Paul in the eyes again. The clock on the wall ticks four or five or ten times, and he raises his eyes back up to find Paul looking maddeningly inscrutable.

Face blank, Paul shifts and reaches toward Daryl, putting his hand on his forehead for the third time that night. When he pulls away, he smiles softly, and relief trickles through Daryl's veins like water. 

“Just making sure,” Paul says, eyes sparkling. “So I’m your wrong turn at Albuquerque?”

Daryl shakes his head.

“Right turn. Shitty map.”

“And even shittier timing,” Paul says, though he doesn’t look the least bit disappointed in the way things have played out.

“Guess so.” Right on cue, Daryl coughs. “Think in my head when I did this, I wanted to be twenty years younger, twenty pounds lighter and wearing a bitchin’ leather jacket or somethin. Not, uh...” He gestures to himself.

“There are way too many versions of this moment in my head for me to tell you just one,” Paul says.

“So you…?” Daryl can’t bring himself to finish. It feels like jinxing it somehow.

“I do,” Paul says. “I’m also trying to decide if it’s worth getting sick to kiss you right now.”

Daryl starts to say no, even as the more selfish part of him screams 'yes!' at a pretty embarrassing volume. Then he thinks of that day at the diner with Maggie and Rick and can’t help but crack a smile.

“A very wise woman once told me that when your choices are between what’s safe and what’ll make you happy, you should pick the happy one,” Daryl says.

Paul laughs softly.

“Maggie really needs to vary up her speeches,” he says, and then he leans forward and cups Daryl’s chin before softly pressing their lips together. Daryl's blood turns to helium at contact, and he would probably sigh happily if he could breathe through his damn nose. 

For now, he’ll just have to settle on smiling against Paul’s lips.

XXX

A year after Rick picks him up on the highway, the only reminder Daryl has of that night is a small bump on his nose that he can only feel when he touches it.

He and Paul renew their lease together. They get permission to do a little remodeling as well, ripping up the carpet in Daryl’s bedroom to reveal the same original flooring in the rest of the place. Daryl’s stuff migrates into Paul’s bedroom—their bedroom now. They donate his squeaky old bed frame to a thrift store and replace it with a large dining room table.

Weekly potluck dinners with their friends follow soon after. The day changes based on shifting work and school schedules, but they manage to do one every week with most or all of the people they love in attendance.

Their dinners often spill over into the living room, everyone gathering on the couch or pulling in chairs to sit around with cocktails and sweet tea well past dark.

“So then I said to Basset, ‘Leon, that’s not a cat. That’s a skunk, you idiot.’ And I hauled ass back to my cruiser before it realized I was there. Basset wasn’t so lucky.” Rick wipes tears from his eyes, laughing at his own story along with everyone else.

Daryl shakes his head, looking over at Paul doubled over in his chair. Without a second thought, he reaches for his hand, squeezing it on top of Paul’s thigh. When he looks back up, he finds Maggie on her feet. 

“When we’re all done crackin up, Glenn and I have an announcement to make,” Maggie says. Glenn stands up beside her, slinging an arm around her middle. 

“Go on,” Rick says, leaning back on the couch and resting his beer on his knee. “I concede the floor.”

“We uh...” Glenn starts, before looking at his wife.

“We’re havin a baby,” Maggie says, smiling at the room. “Due in April.”

Daryl feels Paul's fingers slide out of his hand immediately as he jumps up, crossing the room and throwing his arms around Maggie. Daryl follows, shaking Glenn’s hand while he waits his turn to congratulate the mother-to-be. He's the last person in the room to do so, snaking both arms around her back and resting his chin on her shoulder.

“Happy for you,” he says. “And for that kid. His mom’s gonna be the first woman president.”

Maggie beams at him when they part, holding onto his upper arms and patting his cheek.

“The feelin's mutual,” she says, throwing a glance behind him. “I’m glad you took my advice. Eventually.”

Daryl nods and looks back at his boyfriend as well, the corners of his mouth twitching when he finds him standing with his arm awkwardly thrown over Glenn's shoulders. He catches the words 'nervous' and 'babysit' before impossible blue eyes snap to his, both still shining a bit from Rick's skunk story. 

Standing there in the middle of so much joy, Daryl thinks about all that led up to this moment, to the people around him and the gorgeous man who has become his constant. He thinks about the cycles of pain that once dominated his life and how they've been broken and cast aside and locked away for five to eight years. He thinks about the cycles of happiness that seem to repeat over and over in the weekly dinners and in every single morning that he wakes up to Paul's warmth curled up next to him in their bed.

He wraps his arm around Maggie's waist and smiles softly at his boyfriend. 

“Yeah,” Daryl says. “Me too.”


End file.
